Batshit crazy

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Baseball bats have always had a special place in my cold, black heart. The video portraying Devil Rays uber-prospect Delmon Young throwing his bat at an umpire is delectable, perhaps one of the year's funniest moments -- though Young will get suspended despite throwing the bat such that it hit the umpire TWICE, once in the chest and then up in the face. I call this circumstance fantastic aim and I call Delmon Young a hero.

It reminds me of so many other times when a bat has brought me some form of glee.

May 20, 1989: As a haunted eight-year-old in Ohio, my parents felt one potential way to make me play better with others was to start me in a softball league. In my first at-bat, I watched three pitches go by, all strikes, and started crying when the umpire told me I had to go back to the bench, where those nasty sluts that called themselves my teammates would make fun of me. In my distress, I swung the bat for the first time. The umpire needed three dental surgeries, but he's fine today.

August 2, 1997: High school boyfriend Zeke decided on this day that it would be advantageous to sleep with Marcy O'Brien, a blonde, disgusting cheerleader who drove a sports car to school. Though my days as a softball player were brief, I never forgot how to swing a bat, and I gave the car some new window treatments before giving Zeke's kneecap something to consider. God I am luscious when I'm maniacal.

September 25, 2000: Ah yes, Brad Stapleton, roach hotel on the outskirts, queen size bed with pale yellow sheets, and two nights that will never be matched. I believe a baseball bat was involved, but I can't be sure. There were many objects involved. Of course, when Brad strayed from me, I didn't use a baseball bat to break it off. I used arsenic. And bleach.

March 11, 2001: I purchased my first bat, Buster, from the local zoo. Since, Buster has grown fond of the upstairs attic in which I keep him, and he has become life partners with my second bat, Marguerite. They have two bat children, Puggsley and Wednesday. I love them like children.

August 14, 2005:A baseball bat was again the weapon of refuge when a stranger broke into my house. He had to go to intensive care after his battle with the Moonfry. Of course, by "stranger," I mean "man who cut me off on the interstate on-ramp" and by "broke into my house" I mean "opened the door to his own house while I eagerly waited inside."